


If convenient...

by faerywhimsy (persephone20)



Series: If Convenient... [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 02-03 Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-17
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-31 08:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone20/pseuds/faerywhimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back. Post-Reichenbach 2X03. The boys enjoy a trip to Nevada.</p><p>I am completely surprised and humbled by the interest and excitement that has been generated by this series of fiction. Find me on <a href="http://faerywhimsy.tumblr.com/"> Tumblr</a> / <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/faerywhimsy"> Twitter</a> @ faerywhimsy, where I talk a lot about Sherlock and other things common to our interests!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It is a very emotional day. Not just because I've had the Twitter RPers write to thank me for including their work in my fic, but also because of ALL THESE EMOTIONS that their RPing has elicited today! 
> 
> This one can be read before or without [ Make Sure You See, Not Just Observe](http://archiveofourown.org/works/333871?view_full_work=true), but that one has details that may or may not be referenced here. I really can't say.
> 
>   
>  [](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-3.jpg)   
>    
> 

He gets home.

Drops bags. Items bought from Tesco fall out and splay out over the floor.

The tin of tuna is the reason John gets the drop on his attacker.

With a grunt, the blonde man over balances, seems almost to turn his ankle.

John's military training takes over. He couldn't have analysed what happened in the following minutes.

When it is over, there is a strange blonde man on his floor, breathing shallowly. Bending, John feels for a pulse, ascertaining he is still alive before calling the police.

Strange, but it's the first time London's finest have been in his home since Sherlock...

John very carefully doesn't pay any attention to Sally as she does her job. She doesn't pay much attention to him either.

The apartment is horribly empty upon their removal of both themselves and his attacker. John finds himself considering he would have spoken to Sally had she come back then.

The time is 4 in the morning. Not an average time for an attack.

"A desperate maneuver after the news of Moriarty was let out."

"Expected, given the circumstances."

Funny. John thought that having his place watched would stop those circumstances from playing out the way they had done.

"Taking him in for questioning."

Well, that was reassuring at the least. He thought about taking Lestrade up on that offer of a beer.

Then the message comes through.

_It's finished. Moriarty's web is broken. My work is done, for now. Heading home. - SH_

*

John stares into thin air. He doesn't know what to do with this. He does not know what to do with this.

It's half 4 am or else John might have considered calling his psychologist. No, not might have considered. Would have, and walked right on over there, right now. Maybe the walk would have cleared his head.

There was no head clearing. John didn't know what he felt. All the work he'd done with the psychologist had been towards an end that it would seem was no longer relevant.

No...

John had seen him fall. It had to be a trick. It had to be...

Moriarty. Had to be. Which meant John's attacker tonight... Was it really that much of a surprise his attacker had been part of Moriarty's web, rather than some unrelated crazy figure prompted to a desperate act because of something on the news?

Yes. That made much more sense. John wished that the reasoning made him feel more steady.

That was when he realises his mobile phone is being clutched so tight its digging into the skin of his palm.

It vibrates.

A message.

_Baker Street, five minutes._

No.

No no. Whether this is Moriarty, one of Moriarty's games or -dear god- Sherlock himself, John doesn't know he can handle anything else right now. Maybe ever. He clicks out of the message seemingly from Sherlock, thumb hovering over the key that will call Lestrade's number.

In a removed part of himself, John considers it strange how he's spent so much time and energy denying Sherlock's death when, now faced with the very real possibility he was still alive, John is struggling against that as well.

He eases away from Lestrade's number, going again to the message that seems to be from Sherlock. He stares at it a while, then prepares to make an answer to it.

_You-- God, Sherlock. How could you? All this time. All this bloody time you've been--_

John hovers over that message for some minutes, only pressing the 'send' button when he realised he knows nothing better to say. What does one say on situations such as this? Since being around Sherlock, John has been in some pretty tricky situations, but he'd never thought... and there's never *been* any situations like this.

Hyper sensitive in the aftermath of the fight he's had, John hears a footstep scuffle outside his door. Tense doesn't quite seem to fit the way John's body feels. He becomes suddenly aware again of the five minute warning Sherlock gave him... five minutes before.

_No - just stay there._

His fingers start to shake as he sends off that last message. Another message comes through for him and John realises, realises why his fingers start to shake.

He is starting to believe. The threat from Moriarty's web of connections is over now, and Sherlock might really be back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [ ](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-4.jpg)  
> 

John does what anyone else in his situation would have done.

He punches Sherlock.

Sherlock only raises a hand to his mouth. No "I deserved that," or any other such quip. Merely "Good aim."

"Good aim? Good. Aim?! Those are the first two words you choose to say to me?" John's voice has already risen, but he doesn't care.

Sherlock frowns at him. "I can to outside and come in again, if you'd like?"

"If I'd like? If *I'd* like? Since when has any of this been the way I'd like it?" John is reaching up into his hair, is tearing his hair out. He's spoiling for a fight and, by god, Sherlock is going to give him one. "Cause god forbid it would be any way other than the way you'd like it."

Sherlock suffers through this, not unreasonable rant silently. "And here I thought you would be glad to see me," he murmurs mildly.

"Glad? Glad! Because you staged killing yourself in front of me and _made me watch_? Oh yes, so very glad."

Sherlock has the grace to look at least somewhat abashed at this.

"And everybody else knew... Don't you trust me? Didn't you trust me at all?"

"Lestrade didn't know," Sherlock said quietly, then, louder, "Of course I trust you, John. But your reaction had to be genuine."

"Genuine." John this his lips and nods his head. It seems, despite himself, he can't find another thing to say, then. Until, in a low voice, "A lot of ways I imagined this moment being, Sherlock, you coming back here like this. A lot. And none of them went like this. I went through hell, and where were you?"

Still quiet, "I was outside, in a hoodie, leaving you envelopes filled with cash."

For a moment, John doesn't know what to say. All his anger, a lot of his rage, is simply sucked out of him with that quiet reminder.Then it comes to him. "And you left filthy butts all over the footpath."

Sherlock nods. "That I did."

"And you'll be cleaning it up."

"I shall endeavour to do so." Sherlock grimaced. "Although, it will be at night. Already, I appear to have news reporters and _fans_ interested in my story. Did you and Lestrade have to be so thorough in getting the word out to all of London?"

John's eyebrows lift. "Oh, does your coming back into the living not completely match up to what you were wanting?"

Sherlock backs down. "Forget it," he says. "Forget I said anything."

"Too bloody right," John mutters.

The two friends look at each other for a long time, until John clears his throat.

"It is... good to have you back, Sherlock."

"Good. I was beginning to wonder..." Sherlock stands.

John just looks at him. "Where are you going?" he asks, as though afraid Sherlock is about to go and jump off another building.

Sherlock has the wherewithal to look exasperated. "I know you have not been sleeping all that well, but surely you remember what going to bed looks like?"

With a clearing of his throat, John breaks eye contact with Sherlock. "Yes. Of course. Goodnight then."

Sherlock doesn't move. "Come along, John," he says, his voice softer. "We both need some rest."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [ ](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-6.jpg)  
> 

Not been sleeping all that well is right. Of course, the ongoing, muted sounds of the press outside aren't helping any.

John lies wide awake in his bed for what must be at least an hour before the soft creaking of his door tells him he's no longer alone in his room.

"Are you awake?" Sherlock's voice in the dark.

"I am now," John says, striving for irate. He is still mad at Sherlock, after all. He's sure that Lestrade would have actually likened his tone of voice to that of a disgruntled kitten. The thought makes him frown deeper in the dark.

Sherlock takes this for invitation into John's room. He doesn't turn the light on, but the room is just as light as it was during that well remembered dream. John doesn't have the courage right now to ask if that was actually a dream. Now he's actually glad that the light hasn't been turned on.

His bed dips as Sherlock sits right at the end of it, to the left. John scrambles to move his feet out of the way.

And then the two of them sit in uncomfortably charged silence for several moments. From the look of Sherlock's silhouette, he's looking at his clasped hands. John scrunches himself up on the other side of the bed, eventually pushing himself up on his pillows until he is sitting.

Looks like neither one of them are about to get the sleep they both need right now.

John sighs.

"Lestrade cracked the recording on your phone," he offered. Then, grudgingly, not sure if he's ready to give the forgiveness that the next words would insinuate, "You jumped because it would save my life. Mine, and Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's."

But saying the words aloud has its own effect. Pain is pain and, in the last little while, they've both had a lot of it.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice is thick. "I was aware that that was the likely end of meeting Moriarty on the roof. I had hoped..." Sherlock's voice drifts away, then comes back. "But it did not go the way I hoped. Thankfully, I had Molly ready to take care of things when it went that way."

John blinks. "Molly? What did Molly have to do with it?"

Sherlock pins John with his gaze. "She's works with the dead, John."

John's, "Oh," is very quiet. Of course. While John's work was in keeping people with the living. And _his_ reaction had had to be _genuine._

When John looks back at Sherlock, he's in the middle of gazing down at his hands again.

"I don't expect you to forgive me for all you've gone through." Sherlock's speech is muffled, as though it's costing him a lot to say these words. "I'm given to understand that what I put you through was unconscionable..."

"Of course I'm going to forgive you!" John cries out, obviously surprising Sherlock from the way his head darts up again. "I'm just mad at you right now. _Right now_ , Sherlock." He bites off whatever else he was about to add.

Some of the startlement begins to leak out of Sherlock's expression. He even cracks a small bit of a smile. "Oh," he says.

"Oh indeed," John replies. Mutters, "Seems it's the night for 'oh'."

Sherlock stares at him a while longer, until John begins to grow self conscious. 

"Well then... I suppose I should go back to my own bedroom," says Sherlock.

"I suppose you had," John returns. But before he can stand, "It's good to have you back again, Sherlock. I missed you. Actually, missed you doesn't even begin to cover it."

A slash of white across from him as Sherlock's smile widens. "I know," he says. "I read your blog."

"Oh... get out of here!" John exclaims, flustered.

*

There's a timid knock at the door. It wakes John after he's had not nearly enough sleep. His squints his eyes, arm reaching out of his bed and darting around until it finds a digital clock showing the time 8.14.

8.14am. 

He's had two hours sleep, and his brain's having trouble separating the real from the dream world his mind's so often sojourned in lately. He's so used to remembering appearances from Sherlock as dreams upon waking that disappointment flares in his chest and he silently berates himself for spending so much of those dreams telling Sherlock off. As his mind clears further, John shoots a shocked look through his bedroom wall, in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. The realisation that Sherlock really is back is sudden, and just as shocking as it was the first time.

He forgets that it was a knocking at the door that originally woke him up and, as time has passed, there's a second knock, less timid than the first one. Though getting up out of bed, getting up out of bed and going anywhere but Sherlock's room to convince himself that his best friend really is back, really is alive, is low on his list of priorities, still, politeness is ingrained in him too deeply for him to ignore the knocking at the door. 

Pulling on pants that he wore yesterday from the floor, John blinks many times and tries to stretch his eyelids open before answering the door.

It's Mrs. Hudson standing on the other side.

"John! Are you alright? I heard a terrible ruckus here last night. I was afraid to come by." She's not afraid now. In fact, she's courageous enough to stride straight into the flat, and in the direction of the kitchen.

"Uh... uh, Mrs. Hudson..." She's out of sight before John can speak. He closes the door.

"What _was_ that fuss last night?" Mrs. Hudson asks, once he finally catches up on her. "And now the press are here, keeping me up till all hours of the morning! What are they thinking?"

"Fuss? Oh, I suppose that would be..." The last of Moriarty's men. Right. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock came back last night."

"Then it's true?" Mrs. Hudson's eyes widen. "Oh, I'm sure that I can forgive a bit of ruckus for Sherlock coming back. He's never been the quietest of tenants. Just... try to keep him quieter next time."

This time it's John's turn for his eyes to go wide at the implication of what Mrs. Hudson's thinking. Should he be at all surprised that Sherlock rented here, when his landlady rushed to late night homosexual happenings as the cause of what had clearly been the noises of a fight? At least she had answered the question for him of whether she had been in on the whole conspiracy. It is for that reason that he goes to the extra effort of couching his words for her. "Um, well, that wasn't exactly _because_ of Sherlock..." John starts.

"Of course, I understand." Mrs. Hudson pulls a very hush-hush expression. "Well, the two of you will want to get acquainted again. I won't get in the way of that. I trust that you'll have him let the rest of us know how he escaped that awful business of his death?"

"Just as soon as I know, Mrs. Hudson," John agrees wearily. He's missed this headache, he realises. This headache that doesn't occur without something inevitably _Sherlock_ going on around him.

He smiles a weary smile as he sees Mrs. Hudson out of their flat again. His eyelids are conspiring against him as he heads back in the direction of his bedroom. On his way back, he stops outside of Sherlock's bedroom, hand lifting experimentally to the doorknob. Then, from inside, there is a groaning sound that seems to be coming from Sherlock. He's making full use of these noises to express supreme displeasure at being woken up at such an early hour, his way of letting John know he's awake. It's only slightly more personal than text messages sent in the past that have basically said the same.

For the first time, John starts to wonder what all of this means? What Sherlock's return inevitably means? Will they just go back to the way it was before; Chinese for dinner and arguments over who was going to get the milk? Cause John wasn't actually sure he could 'just go back'. Not after all of this. Not after everything he had felt.

He hesitates a long time at Sherlock's door, before walking on past it without knocking. 

 

*

Having made his way through the mass of eager reporters, eager to have Sherlock and John's story all over again, Lestrade now faces a different firing squad.

It's the first time he's seen Sherlock again. It takes just a moment to get past the shock of that.

"It's really you," Lestrade says because, of course, it wasn't far from beyond the realms of possibility for a hacker to have gained control of Sherlock's online presence. Seeing Sherlock in person is something else.

"Yes. It really is," Sherlock responds, with a hint of a smile. Well, he can smile at that. Every response to his being back so far has been a better one than the one John gave. John's kind of banking on Sally to be the one who brings the single worse reaction than John. But she may surprise them all, and show every regret and relief that Sherlock's back now.

Lestrade clasps Sherlock on the shoulder, and says, "It's good to have you back."

With a nod, Sherlock replies, "So I keep hearing. Got new cases that need my assistance, have you?"

At the first sight of John's face turning white as a sheet, Sherlock ducks his head.

"Another time, perhaps," he murmurs.

"Indeed," answers Lestrade. 

An awkward moment resides. John doesn't want to look up, doesn't want to see the sympathy in Lestrade's eyes, the... whatever is going to be in Sherlock's.

Trying to move past the moment, John replies, "Can we get on with it, please?"

Lestrade paces in front of both of them. "I don't know what I can tell you. If you don't feed them any information, they'll eventually get bored and give up."

"Like they did last time," Sherlock says, with a roll of his eyes, before looking out the window.

"Well, yes... urm. No." Lestrade shakes his head. "It won't be like last time. I won't let it be. You've been cleared of all charges, Sherlock. Moriarty is dead, yes? So you've both got nothing to fear."

"There's always something to fear," Sherlock snaps.

Lestrade looks surprised, but he shouldn't be. John purses his lips, and looks at Sherlock under the cover of his lashes.

"How long?" John asks.

"A week. Maybe two. Not longer."

"A week or two? How are we supposed to get on with our lives with these... parasites hanging on to our every move for _a week or two_?"

"I can try to clear them out sooner. Can't promise it won't cause more problem, though." This from Lestrade.

Sherlock just uses one hand to wave away the usefulness of that offer, not even bothering to look at Lestrade as he does so.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-5.jpg)  
> 

John comes out of his bedroom with only pyjama bottoms and rumpled hair. It seems that, since as Sherlock has been back, his body decided to catch up on all the lost sleep of about a month and a half in as short a time as possible. 

The rest of their apartment is quiet, so John thinks that, even at 11.44am, he is the first person up. That is, right up until the point that he catches Sherlock standing in the kitchen, his back to John, weighing a human body part in his hands. John never had disposed of the stuff in the fridge, and now he bitterly regrets it. Still, there is an expression on Sherlock's face, an expression John recognises as deep in statistical analysis, and John decides against making his presence known before Sherlock is ready to acknowledge him.

After a while, Sherlock turns and opens the fridge door, putting the nondescript body part back where it came from. As John watches, Sherlock goes to the cupboard beneath the kitchen sink. Delight touches his features when he first locates cheap Tesco plastic gloves, and then begins dutifully to fill one up with water. 

John finds himself curious over watching what Sherlock is about despite himself.

The street facing window in the kitchen is already open. Without so much as tying a knot in the top of the glove designed for covering one's hands during the chore of washing up, Sherlock's long fingers pinch it up the top, hover it just outside the window, and then simply let it drop. 

"Sherlock!" cries John, abandoning all ideas of waiting for Sherlock to realise he is standing there in his own time.

"Oh, good morning, John! I thought it was time for you to wake up."

He is already busy pulling out and filling another glove with water.

John is agape when Sherlock deigns to look at him again. 

"Oh, I assure you the centrifical force surrounding these water... uhm, gloves will keep the water leakage to a minimum. At least until it hits its target." He's smiling as he says this. Damn him, he's finding the whole scenario _amusing_. "Without proper experimentation, I cannot know whether they will burst the way proper water balloons have a propensity to upon impact."

John rushes into the kitchen, sure that he's stood by for more than enough of this. He reaches out for the filled glove in Sherlock's hand about half a second before he lots go. 

"Oops," Sherlock says, looking not in the least bit sorry.

John thinks he can hear the beginnings of an outcry on the streets.

"Sherlock, there are _people_ down there!" John reminds him.

"Reporters, John," Sherlock says in answer. "Hardly people. Besides, I'm just taking matters into my own hands."

John doesn't know why he asks, but he does anyway. With a certain amount of resignation, "Matters into your own hands?"

"Precisely." For a small mercy, Sherlock leaves off filling a new water glove in order to offer this explanation. "Lestrade informed us he would not be able to guarantee dispersing this crowd without potentially causing new dramas, did he not?"

"You know he did," John grumbles.

"Therefore I just took out the middleman. It's very efficient, I assure you." This said with one of Sherlock's patented thin-lipped smiles.

"You don't think this is going to create a drama?!" John asks him.

"I didn't drop body parts from the fridge, John." Sherlock widens his eyes as though that would have been a most grave mistake. " _That_ would have caused a problem."

"Yes," John murmurs. "The public probably don't need to know about that particular habit of yours."

No matter how he tries, John can't quite keep his lips from curving. Thankfully, Sherlock lowers his eyes before he sees it. Or does he? The more genuine curving of his own lips would tend to suggest otherwise.

"No indeed." The break is clearly over. Sherlock starts to fill a new water glove. "I can tie this one up at the wrist, if you'd like," he offers to John. "Use it towards an experiment as to whether the plastic of these gloves really is thin enough to burst upon impact."

"This is a very bad thing you are doing," John reiterates, just in case Sherlock has any strange ideas that they are somehow partners in this crime because of the timing when John happened to get out of bed.

"Oh, I know. Isn't it?" Sherlock extends his arm, handing John the full water glove, tied up at the wrist and everything. John hesitates, looking into Sherlock's pale eyes. Oh, who is he kidding? They both know he's going to take it. Of course they are partners in crime. 

The two grown men stand by the open street facing window in their apartment, dropping water gloves at the group of people foolish enough to have decided to outstay their welcome on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. 

In the end, Sherlock's experiment does succeed in giving them a few hours of respite from the reporters, so John calls that a win.

*

Molly comes over, and she is so flustered in those first few minutes of seeing them both, of John seeing that she knew all along that Sherlock was still alive.

"I'm so sorry," she says, looking between Sherlock and John, but mostly at John. She probably can't imagine any apologies would be owing to Sherlock, and John would have to say she was right. "I'm so, so sorry!"

"It's alright. It's alright, Molly. Really." John puts a hand on her shoulder and guides her to sit. 

Sherlock's already sitting down, and there's a smirk on his face that John thinks must be at the cost of Molly's extreme nervousness. John wonders if he's even thought to thank her for the huge and amazing help she's been to him. He likes to think he has but, truthfully, he isn't sure. 

"He's back now. Let's have an end to all of that, hm?" John suggests as he joins the other two in sitting.

"Yes. Oh yes." But her actions doing suit her words. As she sits there, still so flustered, John doesn't know what more he can say to her, except...

John decides to bring out the water glove story, with the help of some of Sherlock's annotating narration. 

"What he means to say is, it really was all Sherlock's fault," John is quick to qualify.

Sherlock shoots him a look but John has learned how to be a smart ass in the time he's been Sherlock's flatmate. John think he sees something like approval in Sherlock's gaze before he looks away.

"Oh, I don't doubt it was." Molly's personal battle against grinning broadly seems to be a losing one. "You probably got all of their equipment wet."

"Not our problem," murmurs Sherlock, and John can't help but agree.

Molly's got work after seeing them, so she doesn't stay long. John wonders if she organised it that way so that she would have an easy excuse to get away if things didn't go well here. As he sees her out to the front of the house, John realises he doesn't have it in him to hold any grudges. It's just as he said. In the end, Molly only did what she did to keep Sherlock safe. In that, she had succeeded, admirably.

"You're happy again," she says to him privately, while Sherlock is still upstairs in their apartment.

"Yeah," John agrees. "I am, a bit."

"More than a bit," Molly says, before shouting out a final goodbye to Sherlock. "It's good to see," she adds, with one of her sunny smiles, before making her own way back out again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-7.jpg)  
>   
> 

The water glove incident doesn't work for as long as John and Sherlock might have hoped.

By nightfall, reporters are starting to group up outside on the street again.

"They're back," Sherlock says in disgust. "What did they think, my dropping water balloons on them was in invitation for an interview?"

"Just ignore them, Sherlock," says John, but Sherlock doesn't quite manage that. He's brooding in the kitchen when John decides its time for him at least to go to bed.

Four in the morning, John's being shaken awake by a fairly wired Sherlock.

"Mrrnf? Wha's goin' on?"

"John. Wake up. Mycroft's about to kidnap us."

"Again?" 

Or, not exactly again, since the last time Mycroft had John kidnapped, Sherlock hadn't been there. The detour of thought does Sherlock's work for him, though. John is now awake. 

"Happy?"

"Mycroft's downstairs. I've already packed your things. Hurry and get dressed."

"Where are we going?" John tries to ask, but Sherlock's already on his way out of the door and John is left no other option than to do what Sherlock has requested.

By the time John walks into the living room, it's to see Sherlock and Mycroft standing before one another stiffly. Maybe they didn't need words to express how they'd missed each other, or how thankful they are for being able to see each other other again. Maybe they don't have those kind of words in their vocabularies. Maybe all that had been said already while John was getting dressed. 

"What time do you call this, Mycroft?" John asks. 

"Time to get going," says Mycroft, with a look towards his watch. "Have you got everything? The car is outside."

The car ride is short, and takes them to a privately chartered airplane. At approximately 4.34am. It is at this point that John begins to grow worried. Sherlock, having grown up with his brother -and therefore had that much more time to grow acclimatised to his quirks- sits comfortably.

"Um," John starts. "Has anyone actually covered what the plan is here?"

It's about that time when Lestrade shows up.

"What are you two doing here?" he says, upon seeing Sherlock and John. "Mycroft said there was a dead body."

"Change of plans," says Mycroft briskly. "Everyone, into the plane."

"Wait." Lestrade stops them. Stops Mycroft and Sherlock, really. John is standing there feeling more than a little dizzy only a couple of steps in front of Lestrade. "I have work in a couple of hours. _And_ I don't have any clothes."

"Actually, you have several days off," Mycroft informs him. "And clothes are in that black bag over there."

It seems the power of the Holmes men is having its effect on Lestrade too, for the inspector walks a couple of steps towards the black bag instinctively before thinking to question, "How do you know my sizes?"

John looks to Sherlock. "Should this be something we're worried about?"

"Nonsense," Sherlock says, and John starts to relax, before Sherlock adds. "Mycroft hasn't been interested in men or boys since prep school."

John splutters at that. " _Not_ what I meant!"

Sherlock glances towards him curiously. "What did you mean?" he asks, but then Mycroft walks right by them, and John doesn't get a chance to ask if they should be worried about the fact of their flying out of London in the middle of the night.

Instead, he asks Mycroft, "Where is it we're going exactly?"

"Nevada."

*

John and Sherlock have a room to share. After the last comment made about Lestrade and Mycroft, John isn't game to ask about their rooming situations, and those details aren't supplied.

It's 6am when they reach the hotel rooms, breakfast time, but all John's body wants to do is go back to sleep.

Theirs is a room with two king sized single beds, one against the wall and one by the window. John isn't surprised when Sherlock takes the one against the wall.

"So, you ever going to tell me what this is all about?" John asks, because it doesn't occur to him for a moment that Sherlock doesn't know.

"Why, its to give the media time to get sick of us, of course." Sherlock is addressing the pot plant in the room. John thinks he is looking for bugs that have been planted. Literally in this case. "If we are not there, they will have to run other stories. A whole hoard of them saw us drive off tonight, never to return..."

"And when we do get back?" John is trying to catch Sherlock's eye, but the other man just isn't looking at him. "Sherlock? We are going back?"

"Of course we are, John."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [ ](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-8.jpg)  
> 

John is the first to wake up and step out of the bedroom, into the common living room shared between the four men. There is a wide window that opens up into a daylight lit Nevada that John didn't get the change to see the night before.

Sherlock comes up behind him, slipping his arms around John's waist, his head on John's shoulder as though this is something they have done dozens of times before. 

John leans his head back against Sherlock's but, before they make contact, the expected knocking of their heads together has John jerking awake, for real this time. He hasn't had a dream about Sherlock since he'd come back to life, certainly not one so vivid.

"What was that, then?" Sherlock's awake and, John notices, staring at him unabashedly from the bed against the wall of their hotel room. He's sitting up against the bed head and has a pen and paper in front of him. The pen is hovering over the paper; Sherlock's whole self has frozen in order to give John his undivided attention. John doesn't want it, and feels his face begin to heat up even more when Sherlock adds, "You were making strange noises in your sleep."

"Nightmare," John lies, but pushes away the covers and gets out of bed at the same time so that Sherlock doesn't have the chance of reading him. Instead, he asks, "What are you doing?"

"Restless." Sherlock gestures at his pen and paper before him, but John knows he's not distracted from the internal deducing. At any other time, John might have some sort of a reaction to this. Restless for Sherlock was always the step before running out for new cases on the street before. But he doesn't even look up, completely missing the fact that Sherlock's staring at him still.

"I'm going to have first shower," he mutters.

*

Leaving the hotel is equal parts avoiding the middle of another Lestrade and Mycroft argument, and the fact that John has just been dragged out of London for a foreign country. He'll be damned if he'll spend it being stuck in a hotel room.

As soon as he started pulling out information brochures, maps and a guide book, the witticisms from Sherlock start coming.

"You're acting like a tourist."

John pegs him with a look. "Sherlock, we're in Nevada. We _are_ tourists."

"Youre a tourist," Sherlock maintains, "I was kidnapped."

It's only while they are out here like this that John finally addresses the topic of Sherlock's restlessness. 

They're sitting together at a coffee shop. John's having trouble making himself understood, but he soon finds that Czech is one of the languages Sherlock speaks. The waitress goes with their order in hand, and John turns to Sherlock.

"What were you, erm, meaning when you said that? In the hotel room?" he asks, glancing down at Sherlock's dexterous pianist's fingers as though they might somehow give him a clue as to what Sherlock was writing. They don't, and John didn't really expect them to. That's what words and questions are for. "What were you writing?"

"Thoughts, John. It's so tiresome to have them all cooped up in here." Sherlock taps the side of his head lightly, but his gaze has already been picked up by people who are walking across the road. John turns to see if he can spot the particular thing that Sherlock is looking at, but it escapes him. 

"What is it?" he asks. 

Sherlock darts a quick look at him before resuming the gaze across the street. "You don't see it?" he asks.

"If I saw it," John says, trying to be patient, "I wouldn't ask now, would I?" Truly, it's beginning to feel as though they are in Baker St six months ago, so John shouldn't have been surprised when Sherlock's next words were,

"The man across the road. He looks like he's helping that little old lady out, but there's a pause to his step. He doesn't know where she's going, he's just trying to get close enough to..." Sherlock's eyes widen, and he smiles. "There."

"What?" John can hardly stand it. It's infuriating, really.

"He pick-pocketed her. Didn't you see it?" Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Stole one of her necklaces too, unless I miss my guess."

Now it is John's turn for his eyes to widen, and they do. "Are you sure? Aren't you going to do something?"

"What do you propose I do? It's hardly a crime worthy of the world's only consulting detective."

John is on his feet and rushing across the road before he can stop himself.

The man -Sherlock's mugger- is starting to walk away from the old woman when John grabs his arm. The man starts piping up in Czech and John has no idea what he is saying. He's been told that people understand English here, even if they don't choose to speak it. "You will give that lady back her belongings at once!" he says.

The man gives not the slightest inclination of understanding John's words, and he is starting to look angry. A stream of annoyed Czech comes from him, and just as John is about to shake him to get his point across, he hears a mild, "Huh," from behind him.

He turns and standing there, of course, is Sherlock.

"He says he hasn't taken anything from that old lady," Sherlock informs John. "Oh, and that you are an imbecile." 

"Hasn't taken...?" John lets go of the man's coat rather hurriedly, and is too shamed to look at him as he stalks away angrily. "But you said..."

"It seems I was wrong." But there is a bright and pleased look in the detective's eyes and John realises, right then, that there is nothing he is going to be able to do to stop Sherlock walking straight back into the line of work that only just had him faking his own death. Not long term. "There's a first time for everything!" he calls back to John.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-9.jpg)  
>   
> 

"Why are you carrying on like you're in such a strop?"

John hasn't even waited until they've properly even gotten comfortable in the hotel room but he's got a good reason for it. Sherlock's pranks have gone from funny if you looked at it in a certain way to very much pushing the bounds of good taste for no better reason that John can see than that Sherlock is bored.

This latest conversation has shown John to be completely right in this summation. 

Sherlock gives him that look he's given so many times at so many people who he views to have a smaller brain than he. John doesn't appreciate seeing that look now. 

"And don't treat me like I'm the one with the problem here!" John informs him.

"Well, you are, aren't you?" Sherlock's deep voice isn't going for a prank this time. From the tone of voice and everything about the way Sherlock is holding himself, his best friend is entirely serious.

"What's that supposed to mean?" John hears his own voice drop into a similar deadpan.

"I saw your face when I made that spoke about picking up cases with Lestrade. I am going to be doing case work again."

"I know that," John snaps irritably.

Sherlock just inclines his head, as though that is an end to it. 

It's far from it. "Don't you think that that's a bit daft?" John asks, diving in head first.

Sherlock just raises his eyebrows, as if in question.

"You know exactly what I mean!" John tells him, not allowing Sherlock the luxury of playing dumb. "You almost died. For me, you did die! You were almost dead! You don't get to pretend like that didn't happen."

Sherlock's eyes flash, but he keeps whatever comment he thought of under wraps. 

"Oh no, let's have it out," John invites darkly. "Let's have it all out on the table, right here, right now." He's always been that upfront type of guy. He supposes that's probably why the military work suited him. Until it didn't. 

Too bad if Lestrade and Mycroft are in the next room right now, John thinks. Sherlock and John have had to tactfully avoid more than one of their arguments since they got here. All of a sudden, John wonders whether escaping to Nevada was such a great idea after all. 

"Alright." Sherlock's voice is a low rumble. "We'll have it out. I know my faked death was hard for you, but I apologised already--"

"And I forgave you," John answers. "But that doesn't just make it all go away."

Sherlock's lips thin. John can tell that Sherlock isn't happy with that answer, but John isn't happy with what Sherlock's saying either. 

"So, what?" John spreads out his arms in a complete lack of understanding. The hotel room is determinedly stark around him. Just two beds, and two men fighting it out with their words. "We're going to go back to London and you and Lestrade will go back to investigating crimes, and I'll follow faithfully along like before?"

"What would you have me do, John? Sit around playing crosswords in our living room, being served endless cups of tea by Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, it would be a damned sight better than calling me from the roof of the next building!" John chokes, the description of that event bringing back too vivid a memory for John to quickly push past. 

Sherlock jerks towards him, an unconscious response, John's sure. He doesn't know if that makes it worse or better, but he keeps Sherlock back with a gesture. He doesn't want to be comforted by him right now.

"John." Sherlock says his name very slowly, very deliberately. "I have to go out there and solve cases. It's who I am."

"Why?" John all but croaks. He doesn't like the feeling, but he feels very weak right then. And, besides that, who the hell kind of person defines themselves by one thing that they do?

Sherlock, that's who. The man in question sighs out between his teeth. "I don't know why I'm made the way I am, only what to do with it. I wish, though, that it didn't cause you such pain." The way that Sherlock is standing, it seems as though it is only strict force of will that is keeping him from coming right to John's side. 

It's another thing that John isn't sure what he thinks about. One thing is for certain, "It seems I was a fool for thinking anything would change after you came back," he mutters.

Sherlock clips his head to the side suddenly. "Change?"

John just looks at Sherlock. For all that it seems Sherlock wants to be there for him, he's the one who's daft if he thinks Sherlock has the faintest idea of how to comfort someone. And yet, the words, "Don't I matter to you at all?" slither from between his lips.

"Of course you..."

"Then why is nothing changing? Things _have_ changed, Sherlock. I don't know if you noticed..."

"I noticed." Quietly. John waits, but Sherlock says nothing more.

"What?" John prompts. He doesn't know what demons are possessing him, just that they are. "You noticed _what_?"

Sherlock opens his mouth, but no words come out. Opens his mouth again, much to the same effect. On the third time he opens his mouth, he says, "I thought things would be easier for you if nothing changed."

"Well, you thought wrong."

"This seems to be becoming a habit."

But this time, Sherlock looks annoyed at himself. Apparently, being wrong should only happen when it is in pursuit of a prank, so as to hardly even count. But John also guesses this may be behind why he's never seen Sherlock get emotionally involved. It's all too easy to be found in the wrong, especially when the person involved has no proper understanding of the way emotions work with others.

John's little win at the admission of care from Sherlock doesn't seem so much of a win now at all. It was taken away almost within the same breath that it was first spoken. 

"I'm not sure I want to stay in Nevada very much longer," John says, despondent. He's looking at the plain carpet of the hotel and doesn't see when Sherlock turns on his heel, and stalks out of the hotel room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-10.jpg)

The only things worse than Sherlock coming back into the room a couple of hours later with a heavy silence that wasn't broken before the two men fell asleep, is the fact that he was gone when John woke up, and that the back of his throat feels like he spent the night swallowing razor wire.

Lestrade comes into his hotel room with an offer of decongestants, which John is thankful for by around midday when his head begins to feel like it's about to swell to at least three times its size. Even Mycroft comes by, voicing awkward regret for the fact that John feels under the weather, though he is careful never to touch John, or to step within several feet of what he calls the 'contaminated area'. John is not-surprisingly glad when Lestrade drags him out of there.

And then, finally, Sherlock arrives, bearing soup, of all things. And John, despite himself, is pleased to see him.

"Mycroft told me you were feeling poorly," he murmurs, and clearly bedside manner and ability to deal with sick persons is something both Holmes men share.

"Just put it over..." The rest of his sentence is cut off by a ragged fit of coughing. He closes his eyes and places a hand over his head, just trying to add some resistance just in case his brain decides to vacate via his forehead. "I feel wretched," he groans.

Sherlock is silent on his side of the room, soup still held in hand. John casts another drowsy gaze in his direction.

"If it wasn't for you bringing soup for me, I would think that this is some kind of bizarre punishment you'd devised for the way I spoke to you yesterday," John says. He eyes the soup. "You didn't put anything in the soup, did you?"

"I assure you there is nothing more than vegetables and chicken stock in this concoction." Sherlock pauses. "Though I did consider some kind of sedative to help you rest. It didn't seem like the best kind of thing to do without asking after the conversation we had yesterday."

John closes his eyes. "I don't want to talk about that right now."

Sherlock nods his head as though that is to be expected. After a minute passes without John's brain actually passing out of his head, or the rest of his body attempting to hack up his lungs, John gestures towards the soup, indicating Sherlock should bring it over. Sherlock even comes closer to the bed than Mycroft to do it.

He doesn't ask Sherlock where he's been so much of last night and this morning, cause that will lead onto a sequel of last night's conversation. But the questions stick in his head so much as to block anything else from actually coming through. He frowns at his soup as he begins to eat it, as though the soup is personally responsible for his being ill and all the questions that are unanswered.

It is Sherlock who brings up another part of that-which-should-not-be-spoken-right-now. "You said you were a fool to think anything would change. Yesterday," Sherlock prompts, when John looks up from his soup. "Was it something you were hoping would change... between us?"

"I can't have this conversation with you right now, Sherlock," John mumbles, feeling very, very sorry for himself.

"No, think about it, John. If you use something to distract yourself, the fact that you're ill won't be foremost in your mind anymore." Of course that would seem the case for one such as Sherlock. John looked forward to the next time Sherlock was sick so he could play the same logic back on him. Make him figure out a case then, since he so dearly wished to do it.

John shakes his head. "Yes, I was hoping us would change. You... me..." Another shake of the head. There's a reason John didn't want to have this conversation right now. He has no idea how to articulate what he means. "And the cases..."

"You must have known that the cases would always be there." Sherlock sits forward on his bed, so that he is nearer to sick John than he strictly needs to be. "So what were you hoping would change between... us?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. You tell me! You're the consulting detective." John puts tones self importance into those last words. It's easy to get irritable when one is sick. Especially when they have Sherlock prodding them. "When you were gone, it just seemed like things could have been different."

"Different in what way?"

John shuts his eyes. He's only ever felt this much under the microscope when sitting in therapist sessions. "Anyone ever tell you you'd make an amazing psychologist, Sherlock?" he asks.

"Why thank you." Sherlock stays otherwise silent, though, leaving John to fill up the gaps. Again, just like in therapy.

"I don't know. I guess... we spend a lot of time together. When we're not arguing, it's a good time.... most of the time, anyway and I... missed you." John takes a thoughtful mouthful of his soup. He's almost finished it now, so he won't have it as a prop to aid his thinking for much longer. "I suppose grief does strange things to the mind."

"But I knew I was not dead. And I knew you weren't dead also," Sherlock muses. "But when we were apart, I found myself missing you, and wondering..."

John is eating soup again, so he misses the strange look on his best friend's features.

"Wondering... It was stupid, anyway. I'm not sure what I was thinking, or if I was thinking at all." Sherlock stands abruptly. "I've just remembered, I forgot something in Mycroft's room. I'll go get it. Feel better, John."

And then, just like yesterday, Sherlock is leaving the room. John has a mouth full of soup and can't call out to him without spraying himself full of vegetables and chicken stock. But, he thinks, that was weird, wasn't it? He wishes that his head would feel just a little bit less full so that he could figure out if that was weird or if his head was just reviewing Sherlock's normal actions strangely.

"No no you can't..." John manages to say once his mouth is finally clear. Of course, by that point, Sherlock has well and truly gone. "Can't just keep running off like this," he mutters, before venturing out of the bed.

He gets as far as just outside the door. Sherlock is standing down the hall, evidently awaiting an elevator, when John's fainting spell hits.

He hears Sherlock call out his name twice, with increasing urgency. He doesn't hit the floor.

Sherlock catches him first.

"What do you know," John says wistfully. "There is a way to make you stay. Got to be a better way though." He grimaces.

"You shouldn't have gotten out of bed," Sherlock says. He's not carrying all of John's weight, but he's carrying a lot of it. Truthfully, John didn't think him for being that strong. He finds himself staring up at Sherlock's lips. "Let's get you back to bed," Sherlock says briskly.

"You shouldn't keep running away from me," John answers brazenly.

He likes the way Sherlock's lips quirk then. "Oh? And what should I do?" he asks, curiously.

"Stay with me all the time," John answers.

Sherlock doesn't say anything to that, but he does come back into the hotel room they share. John takes this as a good sign.

"Hey," John says, his muddled mind coming clear for one second. "Didn't you say you were going to Mycroft's room for something?"

"No John, I'm just going to stay in here with you."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-11.jpg)
> 
>   
> 

John feels much better the next morning. As he looks around the room, he sees that Sherlock fell asleep sitting up.

"Sherlock," he murmurs softly.

Sherlock doesn't stir immediately. John wonders how much sleep he'd gotten the previous night, vs how sore his neck is going to be if he doesn't move.

"Sherlock," he tries again. He gets out of bed, slowly this time. Thankfully, his head doesn't try a plunge for his knees. He crosses the carpet and touches Sherlock's shoulder lightly.

That gets a reaction. Sherlock's eyelids dart open.

"John? What are you doing in my bedroom?" he asks before he orients himself. Then, "Oh."

"Yeah," John answers sheepishly. "How long did you stay awake last night?"

"Oh," Sherlock says dismissively. "Not very long."

John's head is clearer today. As he looks at Sherlock, he begins to wonder whether he's ever going to get a straight answer from the other man. 

"Right. Okay then. Do we have anything that would pass for breakfast in this place?" John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. Of course. Why would a hotel room be any different from their home at Baker Street? John looks into the cupboard hopefully, but there are only tea and coffee making facilities in there. And a couple of sweet biscuits. He takes one out to tide him over. 

"John."

Sherlock's voice sounds sudden, stark and unexpected in the room. John looks up in surprise. It's rare that Sherlock volunteers to speak when it's not pertaining to a case. He chews the rest of the biscuit then swallows. "Yes?"

Sherlock stands. He seems agitated which only seems more out of character for the ex-consulting detective. 

John ventures, "Is there something going on here that I don't know about?"

Sherlock shoots a glance up at him. "Evidently," he says, which doesn't really answer anything at all.

"It's just," John tries again, "you appear to be in a rather odd mood this morning. Are you okay?"

Sherlock thins his lips. He glances towards the closed hotel door, as though expecting someone -probably Mycroft- to burst in right at the wrong time. A certain paranoia within that family doesn't seem completely unexpected to John, but he won't let it distract them right now. 

"Nobody's about to walk in, Sherlock," John offers soothingly. "It's just us."

"That would appear to be the problem." While John struggles to mask his surprise at this unexpected turn of phrase, Sherlock huffs a sigh of unease. "Since finding out I had these feelings for you, it has grown increasingly difficult to know the correct way to act around you."

"Wait..." John feels struck almost dumb, so much so that it's an effect to make words come at all. "There are feelings... for me?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock utters impatiently. "I would have thought that patently obvious by now."

"Well, not to me!" John exclaims. 

Another huff. "Why else would I have been acting like such a buffoon these last days?"

John only just holds off the immediate retort. Instead, he attempts to soften it. "Well, Sherlock... it is you."

He still receives a glare for his efforts. 

John is still trying to sort through the mess that has suddenly risen up in his head. Sherlock... has feelings... for him? "Just how long as this been going on?"

"Oh," Sherlock says, waving a hand lightly. "Only about so long as when I tried living without you there. That was... more difficult... than I had anticipated."

More difficult. John mouths the words, hardly able to believe that they are having this conversation in such a clinical and detached manner.

"Jesus, Sherlock, could you just..." John isn't quite sure what he is asking his best friend to do. "Could you just appear to have some feelings about this revelation?" he bursts out.

Suddenly, Sherlock is standing right in front of him, gaze intense as he looks down at the shorter man. His hands reach out and grasp John by the upper arms. "I have very strong feelings about this revelation, John. It is the appropriateness of the actions to go with these feelings that's completely beyond me."

This close to him, John can't help but notice Sherlock's eyes flickering to his lips. John clears his throat, swallows. "Well... it seems to be going fine so far."

Sherlock drops John's arms as suddenly as he grasped them. In other circumstances, John would have found the way that Sherlock's jaw goes completely slack to be something worthy of high amusement. "You mean... These feelings are not... unwelcome?"

"Shit, Sherlock." He's going to make John say them. It isn't enough that John has made it bleedingly obvious in every look, every gesture, every other word, since the other man came back from the dead? Sherlock's actually going to make him say these words as well? "What do you bloody well think?"

Sherlock's lips part, and he emits a small, gentle sound, more of a breath than a word. "Oh..."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [ ](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-12.jpg)  
> 

"Yes," John says. "Oh."

Of course, John has never been in this situation with another man before, much less with a man who has been his best friend. He has no idea what move he's supposed to make next. 

Sherlock, however, is a man whom John has seen to have no experience before, with either gender, on matters like this. John suspects that makes him the one in charge of the next several moments.

Then again, maybe not.

"Your eyes have dilated. Your breathing is more shallow than it was twenty minutes ago, and, I suspect that if I was to take your one of you hands right now, the palm of it would be sweaty."

"That's enough of that!" John does his best to hide his hands without appearing to try to hide them. Not like Sherlock is _actually_ trying to reach out for them though. Yet. "Sherlock... have you ever... done this before?"

Sherlock doesn't try to dissemble, doesn't try to pretend John is talking about the type of deducing he does all the time. 

It is a while before Sherlock answers, looking as close to disorientated as John has ever seen him. "Not like this. Before. No."

John nods. Reaches his hand out, and takes one of Sherlock's, deliberately not feeling for whether there is or is not sweat.

"How about we let me take the lead this once?"

Sherlock gives an almost imperceptible nod of his head. His lips are pressed thin, but it's permission given all the same. 

As John steps closer, lessening the space between them where their hands are linked, his heart is beating a mile a minute at the possibility that they might actually be doing this. The fluttering in his chest was never quite so intense in his imaginings of this kind of a moment. That was probably because John had never believed his fantasies would ever come to pass. There had been no possibility at all when John had thought Sherlock dead, and once he had come back... 

Now they are here, Sherlock having just confessed feelings for John. Sherlock is staring at their hands. 

John's lips part. "You know that I... erm..." His Englishness gets the best of him at the worst moment. He's clearing his throat as Sherlock looks up from their hands. In his eyes, is the softest expression, like John is not the only one waiting for all this to be taken away from him at the last minute.

"I think I love you," John admits, then shakes his head. "No..."

"No...?" Sherlock's eyes widen, his whole body tenses. 

John clings onto Sherlock's hands, lest they get pulled away. "No... Not think."

Sherlock slowly relaxes. Eventually, a smile lifts his lips. "Not think..." he repeats.

"No..."

If John had told any woman of his acquaintance in the last year that he loved her, he would have expected her to throw her arms around him and kiss him passionately before dragging him towards a bedroom. 

He doesn't expect that from Sherlock, but he does expect some kind of a reaction. Instead, he gets no more than the tightening of Sherlock's fingers around his own, and a return of some of the tension around the taller man's shoulders.

John inclines his head, attempting to see what is going on here. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks Sherlock.

Sherlock looks up, then evades. "I don't know what to do."

John's eyebrows lift. "Don't..."

"Know what to do. Yes, John. Keep up." A return of his usual bite, John thinks. A return to the tones that Sherlock finds safe whenever someone's noticing typically sociopathic behaviour. 

Although it's not really good for his state of arousal to be told off in such a tone of displeasure, this is Sherlock, and somehow that makes all the difference.

"Well, for starters," John says, making small circles with his thumb over the pulse point in Sherlock's wrist. "People commonly touch each other."

"Touch..." Sherlock's lips twist. "Well, I know that much."

"Then how come you needed me to instruct you to do it?"

Another typically Sherlock expression, then Sherlock's free hand lifts and curves around the back of John's neck. As of around the second that Sherlock's fingers begin to flex against the skin of the back of John's neck, John officially ceases to be able to form a thought.

Sherlock doesn't ask anything inane like, "Is that alright?" and John focuses on him to see why. Sherlock's eyes are fixed on John's face. His lips are slightly parted and he looks... surprised, no, fascinated, by the responses his touches are eliciting. It should be no surprise that Sherlock deduces as well in this scenario as in any other. 

A fairly self-satisfied hum makes its way from the back of Sherlock's throat.

John thinks of grabbing Sherlock then and kissing him passionately but, this first time, feels it's much more important to let Sherlock take things at his own pace.

And, also, to try not to get stuck on any ideas of a next time.

Nevada really wasn't half bad after all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-14.jpg)  
>   
> 

"No. I still don't understand the issue of gay marriage. It completely eludes me," Sherlock announces.

John looks up from the crossword puzzle in the newspaper he picked up from the front desk. He _was_ paying attention to the world news section, particularly London news, before the sight of it over John's shoulder made Sherlock crazy.

"The kinds of questions they leave those stories on! A monkey could deduce better than the writer of that article." 

After that, John tried looking at the comics, until Sherlock expressed how "surprised and disappointed" he was by the evidence of John's vanishing intellect as he looked at such pictures. After that, the crossword and sudoku seemed like the only wise ventures for John to pursue within his newspaper. 

He'd already completed the sudoku.

"What is it about it that eludes you?" John sets the crossword aside, not sorry to see it go. There always comes a time in crosswords when the answers you have lead you to absolutely nothing else. John finds himself at such a stalemate right now. He guesses that Sherlock could finish the crossword in under six minutes.

Sherlock has been sitting across from him, looking out of the hotel window with fingers steepled against his lips, for the last ten minutes. That could also be a reason for John's current stalemate. The way Sherlock's fingers press against his lips has always been at least a little bit distracting.

The taller man blinks, then looks directly at John. "Why, the fact that there is an issue," Sherlock replies as though that should have been obvious. But that indicates nothing more than that Sherlock has just been deep in thought. "There would seem to be nothing inherently differentiating a marriage from a gay marriage apart from the gender of the two people wishing to be wed."

"Tell that to the churches," John says archly.

"If Mycroft persists that we remain in Nevada for much longer, I may just do that." 

It's true. The hotel has become rather same-ish for both of them, and Sherlock is uninspired by most of the places John tries to drag him out to, maintaining that he is still not a tourist. Truth be told, even John is starting to miss London, the walls of his own flat, Mrs. Hudson. Nevada has been informative and fun, but John is looking forward to seeing the progression of his relationship with Sherlock in a real life setting, not just in this holiday.

"I don't know what the problem is," John starts. "Molly told us that most of the reporters have gone."

"Knowing my brother, Mycroft won't be happy until all of the reporters have gone," Sherlock says dourly. 

John rolls his eyes. "We can't just stay here indefinitely," he says, but something in him falters as Sherlock just fixes him with a look. "Jesus Christ..." he says slowly upon belated realisation of just who they were talking about.

Sherlock stands up, and John's eyes immediately focus in on him. 

"Enough about Mycroft," Sherlock says. His lips hardly move, his blue gaze stays on John. John's Adam's apple bobs up and down under that gaze. "I find myself uncommonly disturbed by you paying so much attention to my brother."

"You did start it..." John begins to say, but his words are arrested as Sherlock advances on him.

Sherlock's eyes rove over John's face, from his eyes, to his lips, to the tip of his head and all the places in between. His lips press together only a moment before he murmurs, to himself, obviously, "Now, how did this go again?"

Never let it be said that Sherlock isn't willing to throw himself into learning and honing a new skill. It has only been two days since the men admitted their feelings to one another. Two of the most sexually frustrating and delicious days in John's life. They haven't committed many of the sexual acts as yet. Little has been done beyond kissing and petting beneath the clothes, although Sherlock has discovered that he likes to leave marks--bite marks, and scratch marks--upon John's skin; signs that he has been there, evidence to look back on afterwards. John finds it difficult to mind. 

Sherlock has also discovered the art of kissing. Slow, sensuous kisses. Hot, burning kisses filled with need and lust. Though Sherlock doesn't yet understand where the natural progression of such kisses will lead, John is more than content to let Sherlock progress through his understanding of such things. 

The progression is quite rewarding, especially in moments such as these. Sherlock cups the back of John's head like he has been doing it forever. Without moving from his seat--John has also learned to pick by now the moments when Sherlock wants to be in control of the seduction--John lifts his head and offers his lips to be kissed. Sherlock isn't in the mood for slow and sensuous; he devourers John with all the passion that John has recently had cause to find lies deep within a high-functioning sociopath. John has the guilty thought that if this is the kind of reaction talking of Mycroft will garner, then he might have to mention the older man's name more often. 

Then he can think no more. Sherlock is very good at what he does. His tongue darts between John's lips, dancing deliberate steps with John's and muddling John's mind so that he's glad he never thought to stand up. Sherlock's hand clenches against the back of John's head, taking with it a handful of hair that pulls just enough from John's scalp that the blonde man gasps into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock hums his satisfaction. 

John is panting when they pull apart again. It is some moments, and profuse blinking just to set his sight straight again, before John remembers any of what they were talking about before. He licks his lips, before murmuring against Sherlock's, "I did wonder what had brought your mind about to the subject of gay marriage, or gay... well, anything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my attempt to make the boys a little more explicit after the last chapter. 
> 
> Not very much longer to go with this piece. Looks like only one more chapter after this one. I've very much enjoyed taking this ride with you all! Thanks for all the kudoses and kind comments :D


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-13.jpg)  
>   
> 

**Epilogue.**

 

"I knew that, if I put you off in that first time of meeting, it would give us both a chance to get to know one another. Not to mention, it would have the convenient side effect of piquing your interest."

"My interest was not quite _piqued_."

"Hush, John. Don't ruin this moment." Sherlock's words are customarily short, but the look that Sherlock gives him, as well as the pause he offers before he goes on with his words, is more gentle, more indulgent, than John has ever had the luxury of seeing. He finds himself relaxing into the meaning behind Sherlock's words, regardless of what they seem to be saying. "To find out whether we are truly compatible," Sherlock concludes.

"Never mind the fact that I wasn't interested in that first meeting."

"And now we know we are compatible."

John stops. Decides that it's not worth the argument. Smiles. "Yes. We are compatible."

Lestrade has been making comments about needing to be back at work soon. John and Sherlock haven't seen a lot of them in the last two days. Lestrade looks at them curiously as though he can't figure something out. John is sure that Mycroft knows _exactly_ what is going on. 

In one of the few moments John left Sherlock alone, the consulting detective let out a call for people to help him out by murdering friends and family in needlessly complicated ways, remembering, of course, to hide the evidence.

"Most of them won't entertain you for more than two seconds," John chastised from the other side of a table in one of the only pubs they'd found in Nevada that Sherlock still consented to frequent. If he didn't know better, he'd think that Sherlock almost missed Moriarty, but he won't say that. So he reads his book and pretends not to take Sherlock's call out very seriously. 

"Might get three or four seconds out of some of them," Sherlock murmurs.

"You really do need a case if you're paying them that compliment," John mutters without thinking. His gaze darts up as he realises what he's just said.

Sherlock takes John's hand across the table as though it's no big deal. It's still a big deal to John, made even bigger by the easy way that Sherlock makes the action. John looks down at their hands together on the table, staring at it for a while until he's sure that a particularly gooey expression rides his features. Sherlock's gaze is waiting for him when he looks up again. He looks younger, John thinks. Sherlock's face gets softer when he looks at John. How had he never noticed that before?

"At least it might bring in some clients," Sherlock says lightly, but the intensity for the hunt and the mystery isn't there behind Sherlock's gaze any more. It will come back, John reminds himself. But maybe, hopefully, not today. 

"You'll only complain that there'll be more idiots to sort through," John returns. He meets Sherlock's gaze for a while, then smiles. It's easier to smile now.

For both of them.

Sherlock looks away. His fingers fumble in his pocket for a while, coming up with a cigarette first, that he puts in his mouth, and then a lighter; all without letting go of John's hand.

That small fact buys Sherlock until the point of lighting it before John says anything. "You're not allowed to do that in here. Put it out. They'll ask us to leave."

"Why not? It's not hurting anyone."

John just stares at his--friend, room mate, lover, boyfriend?--Sherlock. "You've got to be joking. Give me that." Taking his hand out from underneath Sherlock's, John reaches out to take the lit cigarette from Sherlock's mouth. 

Although the cigarette and its fumes are disgusting, there's still something to be said for reaching his fingers that close to Sherlock's lips in a public place. His lips part, and he tries to grab back his train of thought.

"No smoking inside..." he mumbles.

Sherlock's lips curve, and John mentally curses him for being the one to recover more quickly with, "What? How absurd."

John knows that Sherlock is baiting him. He makes the decision to go back to his book--hidden within the cover of another book--at least until his heart rate recovers a little more. 

"If you want to leave the pub," he says, "you can just say." Not that John would be opposed to that idea. Not at all. 

But Sherlock's gaze sharpens on the book that John holds up. "What are you reading?"

It's an old cover that he found in an op shop, shortly after moving in with Sherlock, and thought that it would come in handy one day. He can't help the smirk on his features as he says, "How To Deal With Berk Housemates, see?"

Sherlock pauses for a moment, then, "Have you put that cover on another book to hide what you're reading?"

As he reaches out for the book John's holding, John attempts to pull it back. He should have known he wouldn't have fooled Sherlock for long. "Quit that, Sherlock, leave it alone. No, I haven't!"

The fact that he has fooled him for this long only shows how distracted Sherlock really is with their budding relationship. He can't help a foolish smile at the thought, and it's that moment off his guard that ends up with Sherlock holding the book. 

"Yes you have. Why would I, of all people, care what you're reading?" He says this, of course, as he flicks through the pages of John's book.

John gives up. "You're not the only one around, Sherlock," John reminds him. "We're in a pub."

"So what is it?" Sherlock asks. "Harry Potter again?" But the furrow in Sherlock's brow states louder than his words that he's already noticed a disparity in the names of this book, and in the overall setting. He glances at John once, before reading through some of a page a little less than halfway through the book.

"No. That has adult covers available anyway." And John hadn't found the Berk Housemate book yet the last time he read Harry Potter. He stands up, desperate to derail this particular avenue of their conversation. "Want another drink?"

"John." Sherlock looks at John in that way that both of them already know stops John in his tracks. John is less than elated to find that it works just as well in a completely public place. 

As Sherlock's gaze drifts down towards John's lips, John cracks. 

"Fine! Let me just say first that it was a recommendation."

"Ah. The girl at the bookshop?" Sherlock lowers his gaze now, too quickly for John to be able to tell if that was a brief moment of jealousy he saw spark up there. Sherlock's speaking again before John can start to question it. "You're aware that I've never heard of this."

The book. John sits down in his chair again. "Yes," he replies heavily. "But other people have."

Sherlock closes the book, hands it back to John, Berk Housemate cover and all. "Looks a bit predictable," he says.

So much for not judging. John shakes his head. "It's actually not that bad," John says, accepting the book back. "Should we head back?"

"We could." Sherlock nods. "I can smoke outside at least. God, I need a case."

John knows how to deal with it this time. Light-heartedly. Because he's not going to be able to change who Sherlock is. Not that he even wants to, because Sherlock is a man who has strong feelings for John, feelings that make him consider the other man's feelings.

At least, sometimes.

And so he says, "At least you haven't fallen to telling everyone everything they never wanted to know."

Sherlock eyes John mischievously. "I could tell you how that book ends."

Since 'Don't you dare' would be an immediate challenge that Sherlock would rise to, John takes a slightly different tack to buy himself some time. "That would be on the list of things I don't want to know. Yet. From you. That's why I read."

There's still amusement in Sherlock's gaze. "I'm sure you've worked it out already," he says confidently. 

"Uh, no, I haven't. That's why I'm still reading," 

"Honestly?"

"Oh, don't do that again. Yes, honestly."

They walk down the street together. John puts his book back into his satchel, then reaches out to hold Sherlock's hand. They're going to be okay, John thinks. If John doesn't murder him first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: The book John's reading is _The Hunger Games._


End file.
